


Kingsman Drabble Collection

by BosieJan



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Drabble Collection, Gen, Kingsman Spoilers, M/M, Multi, Random & Short
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 05:56:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7302118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BosieJan/pseuds/BosieJan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a collection of the drabbles I post to my Kingsman blog. Will be Merlahad, Hartwin, Merhartwin, and various others. Please heed the warnings stated above; spoilers for Kingsman, Kingsman 2, and anything related to set pictures for the upcoming film may be added as headcanon or speculation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Peas

“But they aren’t _snow_ peas, Merlin,” Harry complained, the wicker shopping basket cradled over one arm while the other arm reached for another package of crimini mushrooms. “Snow peas, _mangetout_. Not the common _garden pea_.”

Harry rolled his eyes, a little tetchy after having an argument with Merlin earlier in the day. Merlin had bought the incorrect cream–5% for the chai tea, 10% for coffee, not the other way around!–and they were going to keep the 10%, but Harry then needed 5% for his chai tea. It then gave Harry the perfect excuse to visit the outdoor farm market, and Merlin followed.

“I’ve not seen any, _Professor_ ,” Merlin countered, not really angry at Harry nor taking any of his shit. “Garden peas, green beans, long beans, red kidney beans–both dried _and_ fresh–and turtle beans of varying shades. This market is _sans mangetout_.”

“Can’t be. It’s _June_.”

Merlin snickered but tucked a small package of blueberries into the basket Harry carried, without Harry noticing. “It certainly is! Nearly July, actually. We’ve almost passed strawberry season, cherries are now arriving from a few scarce farms and overseas from Canada, and the tables are soon to be filled with fresh peaches, plums, and nectarines. Your darling snow peas, however..”

“Are over there!” Harry crowed, leaving Merlin’s side immediately to cross through the market to the mentioned stall. 

There was a sign proudly indicating that they had ‘the last of the local snowies!’, and Harry was intent on filling their chest freezer with them. He had two quarts of them already being bagged by the happily-smiling seller, and he turned to Merlin with a brilliant smile of his own, the sight stopping Merlin’s heart for a brief second. Harry had been so salty about not finding what he wanted but now that he had found them, Harry was an entirely different person.

“Only two pounds fifty per quart! I’ve got two already bought, but would you like a third for the deep freeze, perhaps? I’ll not find any save for imports until _next_ June, so I may actually take _two_ more..”

Merlin chuckled and took the heavy basket from Harry so money could be fetched, two more quarts of peas pointed to and added to the pile. The seller continued to smile, busily bagging the peas and keeping the plastic quart baskets for future sales, then handing the bagged veggies to Harry with a cheerful amount of thanks.

“I’ll be here with what’s left of ‘em until the end of the week, if you’re thinkin’ of comin’ back for more. Ta, dears!”

Harry nodded to the woman and took Merlin’s arm at the elbow, allowing Merlin to keep carrying the heavy basket–heavier now that it contained four quarts of fresh snow peas–and trotting off in the direction of home.

“I’ll keep a quart fresh in the refrigerator, then blanch the rest. I wonder if Eggsy’s ever had steamed snow peas alongside carrots at a Sunday dinner. Merlin, we need to invite him for dinner. Don’t send him anywhere this weekend..”


	2. Turning Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a reason why Merlin is not a field agent; a very good reason. (set spoilers, also possible spoilers for Kingsman 2)

Merlin had gotten used to watching; training sessions, orientation classes in HQ, sitting before a bank of screens in his cold, concrete office. It was easy to sit and watch. It was complacent. But Merlin was the furthest thing _from_ complacent, as any Kingsman frontline employee he’d ever met. Some of the field agents _played_ at being lazy, or even incompetent, but it was all part of their ruse. Their facade.

Merlin was forcibly confined to less active duties due to his handicap–a word Merlin detested but accepted, as his sort of handicap normally resulted in the person using accessible-only transportation, personal assistance, and often government assistance, as well–but his intelligence more than made up for his lack of lower legs. 

He’d been a Kingsman field agent for a solid five years before the Gulf War started, and many agents were dispatched to Iraq as recorders of the goings-on, and also to be in position for strategic assassinations as needed. In 1991, Merlin was assigned a job in Kuwait City along with the field agent known as Bedivere, and both men returned injured, though Merlin more woefully so. Bedivere had suffered hearing loss on his right side–which returned after a minor bit of surgery–while Merlin had grievous damage done to both of his legs, requiring amputation of both below the knee.

The scorched earth bombing of the oil fields outside of the city had facilitated a rush in their orders, and the Handlers had sent both men into the field without knowledge of the techniques used by the Iraqis. An explosion had caused Bedivere’s injury, but Merlin was burned by the resulting ignition of the oil derrick they were using as cover. Bedivere was lucky to have even gotten Merlin out alive, but it was a very long, very emotional recovery for the new field agent.

Piloting had come naturally to Merlin in the years immediately afterward; a pilot needed control of his legs for rudder control and taxiing about, but there were hand controls and of course his prosthetics, to aid in the maneuvers. The Kingsman jets were then permanently modified so that Merlin could use his hands as often as needed, though driving a car was equally easy since the prosthetic devices only became better in quality as the years progressed.

Bedivere had been nothing but supportive and it had taken numerous trips to Psych to keep Merlin going, but he persevered, though begrudgingly at first. His intelligence offered a backup line of work; Research & Development. The R&D department had a brilliant man handling the basics of spy novelties, but Merlin added what he could to take the projects over the top. Grenades hidden in cigarette lighters, tasers in signet rings, the removal of the useless telephone in the standard Oxford–really, who _does_ that?–and the birth of his most prized possession, the Rainmaker. Agent Galahad’s weapon of choice, and Merlin’s crowning achievement.

In 1996, Merlin had gone just over five years with his prosthetic legs and new recruits were being added to the lineup. He’d been promoted to recruiter and then instructor by Arthur, giving Merlin a chance to use his logic toward the training of new agents and allowing him the freedom of movement between locations so he wasn’t suffering through cabin fever. The addition of Lee Unwin had been a surprise, but Merlin trusted Galahad–Harry, by then–and wasn’t disappointed in the man’s progress in the slightest.

Before his adventure with Eggsy in the spring of 2015, the last time Merlin had been on-site and out of the country in any sort of agent-based capacity, had been the day Lee Unwin earned his wings in Afghanistan, in the winter of 1997. He swore off field work of any kind after that, and was given permanent Handler duties as a result, but watching from behind a screen was almost the same as being out there in the field himself.

Almost.

He lived vicariously through the agents he handled; Harry exclusively, plus Lancelot and Gawain. The others were handled by Guinevere, Merlin’s second in command. Bedivere especially, had been given over due to Merlin’s attachment to him in the past, and Harry simply refused to be handled by anyone save for Merlin.

But vicarious living was hard, and Merlin often had to step away from his screens to stretch his body out; his thighs cramped from sitting so long, and they fell asleep constantly. He needed to keep his blood flow circulating to prevent clots, the physicians had told him. He lived a good life, complete with romantic interests and all the money he could ever need, but watching his agents having the time of their lives fighting enemies, and dodging bullets, and saving the world, was hard. 

Harder than learning to walk all over again.


	3. Sarajevo Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry keeps mementos in the form of photographs, but Merlin isn't quite surprised by that fact.

And then there was the time when Harry didn’t come home from Sarajevo as planned, but when he did return, he brought the lifeless body of Lancelot home with him. The Lancelot originally known as David. Harry had a hard time remembering David’s surname but when he exited the plane in HQ’s hangar in the autumn of 1995, Harry made it a point to find out what it was.

_‘Fletcher, Arthur David’;_ the personnel file read. Harry skimmed a few lines on the basic information, but it wasn’t anything he didn’t know already. David had chosen to be referred to by his middle name due to ‘Arthur’ being a current Kingsman codename, and few people–save for his friends–actually referred to David by his given name. He was ‘Lancelot’ or ‘Sir’, depending on the situation.

“There’s no family, Merlin,” Harry mentioned, the handler sitting to his left. “He’d been taken in by a wealthy aunt as a child, and she’s long-since passed. Still, I’d like him to be buried properly; perhaps on the grounds. We may not have been close but he was still a hell of a good agent, and he deserves more than a simple cremation and a placard in the dining room.”

“Arthur won’t hear of it. Too many chances for the body to be exhumed for information,” Merlin countered, barely even listening as he tapped away on his computer. “But if you _insist_..”

“I do.”

“It’ll not be on Arthur’s pound, mind.”

“No, I’ll finance it myself. No religious service or nonsense remembrance party. Just have the arrangements made for a proper burial, anywhere suitable but nearby, and I’ll settle the costs. Please, Merlin.”

Merlin looked up from where he was sitting, noticing the crease in Harry’s brow. “Any particular reason, Harry?”

It was still strange to hear himself referred to by his own given name, and Harry turned to regard Merlin with something akin to fondness, though his mind was elsewhere. They’d been getting closer as the years progressed, and could almost be considered a couple by then. 

“He shielded me from a mortar shell as we were exiting the American embassy, after a routine screening of a detained CIA agent. I heard it scream above us as it came down but Lancelot– _David_ –noticed its trajectory before I did, and he threw himself over me.”

Merlin swallowed, the click of his throat loud in the near-silent workspace. “I couldn’t track you once you both left the embassy. There were no CCTV cameras in the city during the raids, and any communication system city officials may have had was long destroyed. I wasn’t aware of what had actually happened, Harry. I’m sorry. All we heard was your communique given after the fact, once the extraction team came for you.”

“I know. I’m not blaming you for any of this, Merlin. We live lives out in the open, dangerous places of the world. It was only a matter of time before one of us clocked out. I’m not entirely sure that I’m satisfied with it being David’s time, this shift. I always seem to get stuck working over-time.”

Merlin gave Harry a sour look that was part hurt and part surprise; Harry’s disdainful attitude had begun to show itself after a few of his more dangerous missions, and Harry’s daredevil-like qualities were fast becoming a liability.

“Go on and have a rest. Medical will need to check you over like usual, and I’ll handle David’s arrangements. Give it twenty-four hours and then we’ll discuss the finer details, yeah?”

Harry nodded and left, his file of Polaroids and typed reports sitting open on Merlin’s desk. Harry was shit with paperwork but he loved taking pictures like a tourist, especially when the mission was an international one. Merlin flipped through the photographs, each one black and white from the small camera hidden in Harry’s suit jacket. A false button covered the tiny item, but it took very sharp pictures nonetheless.

The photograph was labelled _‘Sarajevo ‘95 - US Embassy’_ in Harry’s neat, scroll-like handwriting, and Merlin immediately recognized the pattern gouged into the concrete as a Sarajevo Rose; the markings left behind from mortar shells in the bombed city. He tucked the photograph into his desk, thus removing it from the mission documents, and went about organizing the funeral arrangements for the deceased Lancelot, whose body lay in cold storage a half dozen floors beneath him.

Merlin ordered red roses for a spray inside of the coffin.

If Harry noticed their significance, he didn’t mention it as the casket was lowered into the plot on Kingsman HQ’s grounds, near the reflecting pond. He _did_ hold Merlin’s hand briefly though, and whispered a soft ‘thank you’.

“ _’A rose by any other name’_ , Merlin.”

“Aye.”


	4. Proposal, the first

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day Harry first met Lee Unwin was a day Harry would never regret, yet thought of later in life as simply a day like any other.

> The day Harry first met Lee Unwin was a day Harry would never regret, yet thought of later in life as simply a day like any other.
> 
> Nothing out of sorts happened at HQ. No hiccups in transportation to and from Harry’s flat on the Mews. The driver stopped long enough for Harry to get out at the post office for a private matter at the end of a very boring day of paperwork, and he waited as the man was oft to do, his salary paid by Kingsman to cater to any of its agents, and Harry was his favourite and most often picked-up client. 
> 
> Harry got back in with a small package tucked under his arm and a slight frown on his face, but the driver said nothing. He glanced in the rearview mirror for Harry’s nod and was concerned by Harry’s sour look and the way Harry patted at his jacket pockets. 
> 
> “Afraid I’m suddenly a little light, Andrew,” he said quietly, not in a hurry, nor outwardly angry. “My wallet seems to have grown legs of its own. Hold on for just a tic?”
> 
> The driver nodded and put the vehicle back into park, then glanced around to ensure that they were still legal to park alongside the curb. Harry was off like a shot as soon as he heard the doors unlock, his suit jacket flapping against his backside as he hurried down the sidewalk. 
> 
> Harry knew exactly what had happened, and he eyed the back of the crowd before him as he walked brusquely between the other passersby, empty heads without hats being ignored completely, in favour of finding the ones with blue baseball caps on.
> 
> A fight in public wasn’t what Harry needed and he didn’t intend on it anyway, but he ducked quickly when he was suddenly swung upon, by the man upon whose shoulder he had placed his hand.
> 
> “The fuck, mate? Get your hands off me!”
> 
> Harry moved to counter the man’s elbow as it came swinging toward him, but the strike never landed, and Harry blinked at the body suddenly between himself and the thug, a baseball cap on the ground and a spatter of blood beside it. The man was holding his nose with one hand and digging in his pocket with the other, then Harry’s wallet was on the ground and the thief was running off.
> 
> Harry straightened up and brushed himself off, immediately holding out his hand to the gentleman before him. In denim slacks and a leather jacket, the man looked friendly enough, and in his late twenties if Harry’s guess was correct. He bent over and fetched Harry’s wallet, rubbing it on his sleeve before holding it out with one hand, and shaking Harry’s hand with the other.
> 
> “Your intervention was entirely unnecessary, I assure you, but it was appreciated nonetheless,” Harry started, taking the wallet back and tucking it securely in the inside right pocket this time. “Admirable right hook you’ve got there, as well,” he praised. “Got the job done in the swiftest amount of time allowed, yet did the most damage. I’m impressed.”
> 
> The man snorted softly and waved a hand, as if trying to dispel Harry’s compliment. “Wasn’t nothin’. Thought it was right rank of some chav to go swingin’ on a well-dressed bloke, that’s all. Had your wallet, did he? Fuckin’ wanker.”
> 
> Harry laughed softly and then cleared his throat, his duties at home needing his attention, and Andrew was still waiting for him a half block away in the same spot. “Indeed. Well, I thank you for your assistance, Mr..?”
> 
> “Unwin. Lee Unwin. Workin’ over there on the construction yard for that new office buildin’ goin’ up. Heavy Equipment Operator.”
> 
> “So you have your CPCS card then?”
> 
> Lee nodded. “‘Course I do. Qualified for it two years ago, then started with these guys. Could use a pay raise, but who couldn’t?”
> 
> Harry smiled, knowing that the license needed to run heavy machinery was a difficult one to pass, especially for someone as seemingly young as Lee, and he turned slightly to indicate that he needed to leave. 
> 
> “I’ll keep that in mind, should I ever require part-time services at my tailor shop. Terribly sorry to simply have my wallet returned to me and then run, but I’ve a driver waiting.”
> 
> “‘Course, yeah, go on! Have a good one, Mr., uh, Tailor?”
> 
> Harry smiled again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “If you like. Good day, Mr. Unwin.”
> 
> He walked away without telling Lee his name, out of safety for the organization. mentioning the shop had been a tiny misstep, but Harry was certain that he’d met the man Arthur had ordered him to seek out. New Kingsman recruits were hard to come by when one didn’t run in the same sort of social circles as the other agents, and Harry Hart had never exactly been a standard agent.
> 
> “Variety is the spice of life, Andrew,” Harry chirped, as he poured himself back into the cab. “To the shop, please, instead of home. I’ve a proposal to type up, and it simply cannot wait until morning.”


	5. Sweet Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry isn't so sure that living through Valentine's assault was worth it.

Sometimes, Harry feels the need to just scream. He wants to holler out his aggressions and upset and mental anguish, but he’s a gentleman, first and foremost, and gentlemen don’t raise their voices needlessly.

So he internalizes it.

Thinks about falling off the face of the earth while sitting in the cab, on his way to HQ for the day. Imagines locking himself in his flat and never leaving again; phone-silent and off the Kingsman grid. There were food delivery services and he could do his banking and financials via the internet, so there would be no real need to leave.

The headaches are terrible and the halo they cast drives Harry to nauseous vomiting. The Kingsman physicians had stated that he was lucky to be alive, but sometimes, Harry’s not so sure.

He’s not sure he made the right decision by peeling himself off of the heated tarmac in Kentucky, and struggling to walk with one eye closed and half of the nerve endings in the left side of his face firing like tiny incendiary furnaces.

Perhaps paradise wasn’t sitting in his study with soft music playing, and a glass of sherry in his hand.

It may have been the sweet release of death that once claimed him, on top of that hot asphalt in the Good Ol’ US of A.


	6. Captured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'We don't have enough tortured Harry in this fandom, do we?' - h8rryh8rt on tumblr

“That _wasn’t_ a suggestion, _Englishman_. Tell us who you work for!”

Harry glared vicious side-eye at his captors–militants from the Ivory Coast–and he chewed at the inside of his cheek, deciding between protecting himself and giving them a false answer, or offering more of his poisonous sarcasm and earning himself a few more bruises. 

Harry chose the latter, and groaned near-silently as the man to his left backhanded him hard enough to tip the chair slightly, before it righted itself along with Harry’s bodyweight. 

“You call _that_ a slap? My mother, God rest her soul, could hit harder than that and she’s fucking _dead_.”

“As _you’ll_ be, _Englishman_ , if you don’t tell me what I want to _fucking_ hear! You’re not MI6, you’re not GCHQ. That would make you an anomaly, and anomalies are _eliminated_ where I come from.”

The man punctuated his rant with a stab of his rifle to Harry’s pec, leaving behind a red spot where the muzzle had thumped against Harry’s skin. 

“Where I come from,” Harry started, “Anomalies are unique. Cherished. Treated like something out of the ordinary, valued beyond monetary means, and calculated higher in importance than that of the standard, bottom-of-the-barrel _cunts_ such as yourselves. Now, if you value your lives the way we value those like my own, you’ll drop your weapons and back the _fuck_ away from me before my team expands your minds the way a hand grenade expands a ripe watermelon.”

Harry had seen the extraction team sliding in through the high windows of the dusty warehouse, and if the chirp of Merlin’s ‘brace for impact -M’ message on Harry’s inner heads-up display meant anything, it was time to duck and cover before gunfire erupted around him. 

The pair of men with the guns went down first; gunshot wounds to the back of the head, without fanfare or announcement. Harry had warned them, and their immediate responses had been to glance at each other, rather than obey a direct order from the restrained agent. Blood spatter from their executions only added to that already on him, and Harry ducked almost instantly so the team could dispatch the hired muscle behind him. Both men went down just as easily as the first set, and Harry sighed as he sat back up.

Bloodied, bruised, nursing a broken rib and a split lip, Harry was better off than some missions he’d been extracted from. He smiled crookedly at Bors and Gawain, both men in tactical gear on top of their bespoke suits. The other six men were Extractors only, and they waited at the exits around them in case the captors had backup either on the way or notified once the gunfire had begun.

“About _bloody_ time you got here.”

Gawain chuckled and cut Harry’s restraints while Bors gathered him up to carry him fireman-style, over one shoulder for safety’s sake. Harry had been held captive for well over twenty hours and despite pissing himself when his desperation hit its end, he was fine to walk but far too weak to actually manage it.

“Galahad is secure,” Gawain said softly, tapping his glasses to send the message to both Merlin and Arthur. Only Merlin responded, his voice tinny in Gawain’s earpiece.

‘Affirmative. Helicopters are en route for the entire team. Medical is on standby. Good job, Agents.’

“Merlin says ‘Get the fuck home’,” Gawain hollered, his smile bright. 

Harry smiled back, the movement aching his sore jaw and busted lip but he knew Merlin could see him via Gawain’s visual feed. 

“On my way, darling. Be a dear; run a bath.”

Bors snorted and whipped his hand around in the air in an ‘all-clear’ gesture, then started toward the tarmac, the drone of helicopters fast-approaching. He went gingerly with Harry thrown over his shoulder and Harry let his eyes close for the first time since finding a bag tossed over his head in the toilet in Heathrow. 

Harry was fairly certain that he’d never use the loo alone in an airport again. At least not without checking every stall thoroughly first, then locking the _goddamn_ door behind himself.


	7. Italia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Hart: Not a baby. Not an invalid. But very definitely a spoiled adult.

“No, it’s never been _all right_ , Merlin. _Ever._ There is no scenario in the bloody world that would involve myself and another field agent _missioning together for my safety_. I’m not an invalid, nor am I a child to be coddled. I’m fifty-five _fucking_ years old, for Christ’s sake!”

Merlin stood silently as Harry tore a strip off of him, a clipboard tucked against Merlin’s chest and a broody frown creasing his brow. “You’re not well, Harry.”

“But I’m not _unwell_ , either! On the mend, yes. Frustrated beyond belief, yes. But I’m not _dying_ of anything, you know. It’s not AIDS, or malaria, or bloody _cancer_. It’s a head wound that has healed. I’ve been cleared for active duty by Kingsman’s own physicians!”

“Cleared for active duty and currently throwing a tantrum because I’ve asked that two agents be assigned to a single mission. Two agents who have worked together in the past, and two agents that are qualified for the mission to Italy, where Italian must be spoken fluently and the culture understood. But by all means, assume that I’m sending someone to _watch_ you, and not actually help the organization benefit from your shared talents. I could send Eggsy and Roxy, though their scores in Italian are somewhat lacking, but they’re certainly a better choice than _your_ salty arse. Gawain I can station elsewhere.”

Harry looked genuinely affronted by Merlin’s explanation–not to mention the insult to Harry’s lovely backside–and Harry set his pen down on the blotter and crossed his arms over his chest, as he sat back to better observe the calm handler. Merlin really was a treasure to both himself and the organization, but sometimes he was downright cruel.

“I’ll not have you risking the life of my protege and our lovely Lancelot. Gaheris, perhaps?”

“In Botswana, gathering intelligence on the Islamic State’s influence there.”

“Lamorak? He’s been off-duty since returning from Greece.”

“On his honeymoon. I’m rather surprised that it slipped past your radar. He married that ginger from Accounting. You remember the one.”

Harry’s eyebrows furrowed deeply. “Not that one with the fake breasts? Oh shit, what’s he gotten himself into?”

“Nothing he can’t handle.”

“Fine, fine. I’d suggest Bors, but fuck Bors.”

“You wish.”

“Every goddamn day.”

“Trollop.”

“Slavedriver. Have your fun, Merlin. Schedule myself and Gawain on the Italian mission, but have no doubts about how displeased I am.”

Merlin stepped closer and leaned down to press a firm kiss to Harry’s forehead, earning himself a huff and a quiet slandering. He straightened up and brushed a speck of fluff from his jumper, then gestured toward the door. 

“I’m going to schedule it now, but neither of you are to leave until morning. It’s important to have you flown in during the daytime so it doesn’t look suspicious, but you’ll like where you’re flying into; I’ve got Tristan piloting this mission.”

Harry’s eyes went wide and he slapped a hand down on the desk to show his indignity. “Tristan will only fly into public airports! That means we’ll have to handle security checks and our own luggage!”

“Welcome home, Harry,” Merlin chirped, as he left ‘Arthur’s’ office. The door closed slowly enough that Harry’s angry retort was heard, though only chuckled over. Nobody could replace Merlin. Ever.

“You’re fired!”


End file.
